There Are Ashes In The Air
by Nerikla
Summary: Immigrants. Thousands of them leaving countries and risking death to come to the Land of Opportunity. This is the story of one of those immigrants...a story of racism, friendship, and a boy's discovery that life doesn't always have to be painful.


The smell of the docks is so overpowering that even the rats fight to stay onboard the tiny toy ships. Once the ramps are set and the dirty, filthy people spill out, chaos ensues. The stench is horrible, one of close living quarters and weeks upon weeks of screaming beneath the decks without anywhere to perform bodily functions except for the floor. So many people pile onto the ships as they leave their countries, their eyes bright with tears and full of expectancy.

  


Few of them survive.

  


America, the land of opportunity. The land of liberty and happiness, the land of life.

  


Bullshit. America stole my sister and mother from me. I don't know where they put the bodies of deceased immigrants from our journey, but I'm pretty sure that they either threw them in the ocean, or burned them. I hate the ashes that spew out of buildings. As I stand here, my eyes adjusting to the harsh sunlight, there are ashes in the air. 

  


The ashes of my mother and sister.

  


I can't understand anyone who speaks to me. My accent is thick, so heavy that my English is garbled to American ears, and vice versa. I get called a mick the second that I step away from the streams of people- I don't even have to open my mouth for others to know what country I'm from. With my short, straight red hair and freckles, I look so Irish that I can be easily picked out from any crowd. I tug my vest closer and my hat lower over my cheek bones, hoping the dying sunlight will cast a shadow over my face. I can feel their eyes on me. Burning into me. Branding me with hatred.

  


I'll learn how to hate very quickly.

  


I'm glad that my sister isn't here. I'm not glad that she died, feck no- you say that to my face and I'll deck you. It's just the women standing beside the flow of people who're searching for relatives. It's the women in fur coats, with heavily painted faces, their beady eyes roaming the crowd for a girl who looks lost or alone. Sometimes when they spot one- only the pretty ones, you'll have to understand- they'll step up to them, whisper sweet things in their ears, and lead them away. The painted women know how to sound familiar, speaking with thin accents, sometimes in familiar languages. Gaelic, I can hear. My language is music, but it is spewing bile from the mouths of these women. They lead the girls off with them, chatting like old friends. I want to scream after the girls. How can they be so _stupid_? Don't trust them, I want to roar! _They will kill you!_

  


Those girls will become prostitutes, infected with disease and dead within a year or so. Maybe I'll see one of them beneath me before handing over my money. That's their penalty for coming alone. That's the penalty for being beautiful, and an immigrant.

  


I'm supposed to meet my Uncle here, but I can't find him. I'm not here alone, not really. I told the guards at admissions that I'll be staying with family. Uncle wrote and promised that he would meet us. But I don't see him.

  


Hours have passed, and I am still standing near the docks. Still no sign of my Uncle. He's a cheerful, round type who drinks too much and says too little. He wrote us only three months ago, encouraging us to come and join him in America. He found a job and a new wife in this land of opportunity. 

  


No sign of him.

  


It's going to be dark soon, and I am afraid of what will happen if I stay.

  


I've committed the sin of being born Irish, you see. The shady men who pass glare at my red hair as though it is the most offensive thing they've ever seen.

I have to get out of here. I have to.

  


But where do I go?

  


I have thirty-five cents, and no understanding of the American currency. My mother had money on her, but when she died, I forgot about it. I spent a week with her body, then watched my sister go as well. Finally they took their bodies away.

  


My mother still has the money.

  


It's with her still. In the ashes, which are falling again with the smoke.

  


Money, burnt into fine gray bits, fluttering around my body. Hello, Mother. Good bye, Mother.

  


Uncle isn't here, and I have no idea where to go.

  


Those two men have been eyeing me. Finally one approaches. I back up, carefully clutching my belongings to my bony body. He speaks slowly, as though I'm stupid.

  


"Need a ride, kid?" His New York accent is so heavy that I could bite it. I stare.

  


"Why?" I ask suspiciously, hating how Irish I sound. I can see in his eyes that he hates me. Mick, he baits me silently. I'm a mick and he knows it.

  


"Just one dollar. Three dollars if ya wan' me t' introduce ya t' an inn keeper," He promises with a seedy grin. I stare some more. I haven't got fifty cents to call my own. Is this a good deal? I _do_ need a place to stay. Maybe I can lie. I don't know if that is a lot of money- perhaps I can earn it on my first day working. Maybe not. 

  


Later I'll find out he's one of the many dirty sleeveens that try to rip off immigrants. They feed off of us like leeches, until they're so fat with blood that they pop off and you can step on them, watching the crimson fly everywhere. I shake my head, and slink away under his scowl. 

  


Look like you know where you're going, I order myself. There, follow that couple- they're Irish. You can trust them. Stick to your own kind.

A boy approaches me out of nowhere. He's short and has a pudgy face, with light red curls tucked away under a cap. He's Irish enough, and has some papers tucked under his armpit. "You got parents?" He demands, fumbling in his pockets. He pulls out a stump of a cigar and jabs it between his fat lips. "Or a light?" He adds wistfully from around the cigar, knowing I don't.

  


"No," I reply simply, glaring at him. Who is this kid? I start to walk around him. He looks Irish but he sounds like he's lived in New York for a long, long time. He's not like me.

  


He can't be trusted.

  


"Hey, slow down!" He calls after me, not taking the hint. I hate him.

  


"Hump off," I mutter darkly, shaking my head again. 

  


"You don't have a place to go, Red." The comment forces me into silence. I slow down slightly, blinking at the name he calls me before realizing it's because of my hair. Gom. His hair's as red as mine.

  


He catches up, tugging at my arm with one of his greasy hands. I swipe at him absently, meaning to puck him firmly, the way you hit a stray to let him know you won't be tossing him any food. The boy ducks casually under my fist as though he's been expecting it.

  


"You could go to Soho," He suggests amiably.

  


"Why're you followin' me?" I scowl. He must be a header to have followed me this far.

  


"Almost night," He remarks amiably, taking no notice of my obvious disgust. "An' you doan wanna be here when it is."

  


He's right. With a loud sigh I come to a complete stop, turning to face him. "So?"

  


"So I'se gotta place where y' can stay, provided you'll work," The kid grins from around his unlit cigar, his voice muffled. I don't smoke. I prefer to drink- it's cleaner.

"Yeah?" I say without much interest. I'm suspicious.

  


"...sellin' papes," He continues as though I haven't spoken. He pulls out the newspaper. It's stained in the spot where it was beneath his armpit. It's hot out here, even though the sun is threatening to set. I glance at the newspaper momentarily. 

  


"Why?" My question is abrupt, and obviously catches him off guard. He gives me a curious look, like I'm something special that he hasn't ever seen before. I'm beginning to suspect he's not quite the full shilling.

  


"Why what?"

  


"Why're you doing this?" I demand. I need a stiff drink- that'd calm me down in a moment or two. I miss drinking. It's been hard going without it on that dirty ship. If I can just get langered, I'll be all right. My drinking has never hurt anybody but me.

  


"Because I wish someone had done it for me." Fat Lips is serious now. He takes the cigar out of his mouth, and wipes the end off before tucking it away again. He doesn't look so ugly when he's being earnest. 

  


I try to size him up. He's smaller than I am, though probably heavier. He's dressed well enough, even if his face is smudged. I'm much dirtier than him- my Mother would be in hysterics if she could see me. I need a shower, and am jaded down to the bones of my feet. The weariness settles in comfortably, so smoothly that I barely notice it's there. I have to snap my eyes fully open to concentrate.

  


"Fine." I don't even realize I've agreed until I see his grin.

  


"Okay then, Red. I'm Snipeshooter- 'least, that's what the boys call me. An' you are...?"

  


"Liam." No need for a last name. I lost mine the moment I left Ireland.

  


"'nough of this guff," Snipeshooter suggests coarsely, and laughs. I'm glad to hear him sounding less American. I can identify with anyone Irish, and the slang makes me comfortable. I can't even begin to understand all the others who talk with such thick New York accents. "Let's go home."

  


"Home?" I summon up as much sarcasm as I can, but to my despair end up sounding rather hopeful. Snipeshooter grins at me, a sidelong glance that makes me redden. I blink, my heavy eyelashes seeming to weigh me down.

  


"Let's go" He leads the way. We twist, we turn, we throw ourselves on the back of a carriage and very nearly get lost. By the time we finally arrive at Snipe's destination I am so ready to sleep that I can't even focus on the building we enter.

  


I'm aware that Snipeshooter is talking, but I can't get myself to listen. I am drifting away, taking in my surroundings through blurry eyes. He argues some more, and then I am being yanked up an uneven staircase. There are boys here- so many boys that I can't even begin to guess how many. One tries to speak to me, but laughs as I mutter an incomprehensible response. Snipeshooter returns, looking shaken, but at the same time triumphant. He shoves me into a bed, and I fall into it gratefully. Within moments I'm asleep, not realizing I probably have made a holy show of myself.

  


I don't care about the dirt encrusting my clothes, or that the other boys are still talking. I don't remember the boat ride, or the leering men, or the painted women. As I sleep, all I can see is miles and miles of red hair. It is snowing. I laugh, tilting my head back to the unfamiliar precipitation, twirling around and around like my sister did whenever she got a new dress. I try to taste the snow, then realize that it isn't white. It is gray, and it isn't snow...it's ashes, and I'm surrounded by buildings, and someone is laughing...

  


Ashes...

  


I stir in my bed, forcing my blurry eyes open. I'm in the dark. Where the hell am I? "Mum?" I say softly. I haven't called for her since I was a child.

She doesn't answer. As someone stirs above me, I remember that I'm in America.

  


I stumble to where I can see the jacks, through a door. My steps are uneasy, and I feel like I'm fluthered. I shut the door firmly behind me, then stagger to the sink. I pump the water as hard as I can in my state, washing off first my hands, then stripping off my shirt and clothes. The water that surrounds the drain is black.

  


In the bunk room, an irritated boy covers his head with his pillow. "What's in hell's the new kid _doing_?" He demands angrily.

  


"Shut up, Skitts," Snipeshooter growls.

  


I continue to wash. Months of grime and sweat go down the drain. I stick my head beneath the pump, not noticing that it's two in the morning and I haven't got any clothes on. All I care about is getting clean. 

  


Wash away the dirt...wash away the tears...

  


Wash away the ashes...

  


...wash away the pain...

  
  
  


* * *

So that's it. I actually created an OC character that I like.

  


Cool.

  


Here's a little dictionary of Irish terms if you're confused:

  


Letting on: pretending

Feck: slightly nicer Irish version of that four lettered word

Fluthered: drunk

Full shilling: mentally stable

Gom: idiot

Header: person who is mentally unstable

Holy show: spectacle

Hump off: go away, leave me alone

The Jacks: bathroom

Jaded: exhausted

Puck: sharp blow

Shook: pale, scared

Sleeveen: untrustworthy person

  


I'm already working on the next chapter. This story won't all be done from Liam's point of view- it's going to switch with each chapter. Review and tell me if it's worth continuing. ^^

  



End file.
